


Blood Moon

by dustofwarfare



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Hatesex, King of Liberation, Outdoor Sex, Pre-Canon, References to Pre-Canon Events, as in the ten elites, background blaiddyd/riegan/fraldarius, enemies to lovers right back to enemies in the morning, potentially disturbing foreplay talk, pre-battle of Tailtean, spoilers for Rhea's backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare
Summary: “We all turn to dust in the end, Lady Seiros. There is no other way for it to end. The magic we took from you, even that doesn’t change the truth.” He takes the fruit away, only a core now, and tosses it to the side.  Maybe a tree will grow there, one day. Maybe it will just rot.“There is no end for any of us but that. Death. I’ll meet mine, when it comes, like a warrior. A man. A king.”He draws her close with fingers tight on her bare arm, his mouth bold, his tongue hot in her mouth as it chases the taste of the fruit.(Seiros and Nemesis, the night before Tailtean.)
Relationships: Nemesis/Rhea (Fire Emblem), Nemesis/Seiros, Seiros/Wilhelm
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Blood Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sundreigon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundreigon/gifts), [Hanatamago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanatamago/gifts).



> Pre-canon fic for Sundreigon, who appreciates the super-niche pairing of the OG FE3H Enemies-to-lovers ship ;) 
> 
> Thanks to Ohmyfae for the beta!

There is a blood moon the night before Tailtean. She sees it there, hanging in the sky like an open wound, reflected in the river where she goes to bathe. 

Seiros drops her robe and wades into the water rippling crimson. It’s a bit too cold to hold the illusion. Blood is warm. Seiros knows that better than most. 

The rocks beneath her bare feet are sharp, cutting until she gets deep enough that the ground falls away. She floats, caught like the moon suspended in the sky, and wonders if it will be enough. To take the life of the monster who took her mother, turned her spine to a sword with which he means to slay her. 

Something shifts beneath the water. She closes her eyes, focuses on the child of her skin. It would be easier to shift, let the change take her, meet Nemesis without the constraints of her humanity binding her. 

No. She will meet the Fell King, she will defeat the Fell King, as a human. He is not worth the truth of her. Not after what he’s done. 

She goes under the water, lets it wash over her head. A baptism. A benediction. 

***  
There is someone on the shore watching her. 

“The morning will come soon enough, Fell King,” she says, as her feet find the jagged, edged rocks on the bottom of the river. One slices into her foot, but she gives no wince of pain. Merely thinks how fitting it is, that the sight of him there should lead immediately to bloodshed. 

He is leaning against a trunk of an old gnarled tree, relaxed as a predator too glutted to bother stalking fresh prey. Which she is most certainly _not_ , despite what he might think. 

The King of Lies is dressed not in his melodramatic battle armor of fur and iron, but simple leggings and a tunic. His snow-pale hair is wet, beard neatly trimmed. How nice to know he bathed for her, made himself presentable for the slaughter. He’s eating something, a piece of noa fruit. It’s red, and it glints in the light of the moon as he raises it to his mouth, sinks his teeth in. 

“I could keep morning from coming at all, for you,” this ruin of a man says, smirking at her. “Some leader you are, Lady Seiros. Bathing naked in a river, where anyone could see you. End you with an arrow. Riegan has his bow, when he’s done trysting like a boy before his first battle, I could send him to do it. He’s loud when Blaiddyd has him bent over a tree stump, unless he’s got his face in Fraldarius’ cunt while he’s being fucked, but he’s quiet enough when he needs to kill.” He flashes that hateful grin at her. “What? Does this talk _offend_ you? The threat of death makes my soldiers want to taste _life_ for a time. Do your saintly companions spend their eve before a battle on their knees, giving prayers instead of cock?” Nemesis laughs. He sounds like a crow. A vulture. Some carrion bird that feeds off the dead. 

“Do you think you will win tomorrow by shocking me into drowning in the river? I know what soldiers get up to before battle, you wretch. This is not my first war.” She smiles. “With you, even. As I know you remember the last, how you fled from me.” 

“The only battle that matters is the one waiting to be fought,” he says, but she can tell that irked him, reminding him of their last altercation. 

She is going to have to get out of the river, and that means baring herself to his hateful gaze. There is no way around it, unless she wants to ask him to hand over her robe, and she doesn't want his cursed fingers touching the silk. It is a favorite of hers, a gift from Wilhelm, and what a pity to have to burn it now that _he_ has touched it. 

He takes another bite of the fruit. “Do you want to know who I fucked before I slaughtered your monstrous brethren at Zanado?” 

“Not particularly, no,” she says. “Though, if I knew the name of that unfortunate soul, I would send them my condolences. I’d imagine they finished the act and thought if that was a taste of life, they would prefer to try death for some variety of their palate.” 

He laughs, and this time, it sounds -- honest. Real. She hates that almost as much as she hates his crass language, his references to the slaughter of her people, the way he rests his booted foot against the bark of a tree that did _nothing_ to deserve such a thing, the very air tainted by his foul breath. 

“Your wit is as sharp as the fangs you keep hidden, eh, Lady Seiros? A pity. The world could use more clever women. And --” 

“One less clever man,” she says, rising from the water, water sluicing off her. 

He laughs, again. He does not turn away like a gentleman, though she never would have expected him to. “How strange, little star. You look like a woman and yet I know you aren’t.” 

“I was thinking the same of you,” she says, and fights off a shiver from the cold air, the heat of his gaze, moving with frank appraisal over her wet, naked body. 

“What, you don’t think I look like a man? Would you like me to show you just how much of a man I am, eh, Lady Seiros?” He cups himself with a hand, rude as any common soldier in the barracks showing off. 

She decides that perhaps he is not a crow, after all. With his braying laugh and those bright yellow eyes, he is less a crow and more like a jackal. 

She’s heard tell that crows are supposed to be smart. 

“No. I meant that I do not find you much of a king.” She looks down, to where he’s still cupping himself through his pants. “Though I do not find you much of a man, either.” 

The juice from the noa fruit runs sticky-sweet down his chin. “Then what do you find me?” 

“Odious. A savage. A thrice-cursed barbarian. A murderer. A scourge to be left where slain, the earth burned and salted beneath your rotted corpse.” She reaches out and takes the fruit from him, brings it to her mouth. The flesh tears easy, and the inside is slightly overripe, bursting with juice that floods her mouth. 

The night smells like the white, fragrant flowers blossoming nearby on the vine.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, eyes glinting like flame. “That I have to kill you seems a pity. I’d rather put a collar on you, keep you with me, chained to my throne. You’d hate _that_ , wouldn’t you, proud creature that you are?” 

“I would rather kill you than keep you, even in chains,” she says. “I prefer prettier adornments for my throne.” 

“Yours, or your Emperor’s?” he smirks, reaching out, dragging callused fingers over her chin, collecting the juice from the fruit. “Does he pleasure you, Lady Seiros? Knowing what you are, that there are scales and teeth and talons hidden beneath your pretty skin?” 

He makes a show of licking the juice from his fingers. She feels herself grow warm between her thighs, wet. 

“There is no world in which I would speak of such things to you. I wish to guide the world into light, not fling it into the darkness of war. You took my family. You took their blood, their bones, and made weapons to kill each other. You are worthless, and you will die tomorrow and rot in the sun until your bones turn to dust.” She takes a final bite of the fruit, tilts her head back, wet hair falling over her shoulders. 

“We all turn to dust in the end, Lady Seiros. There is no other way for it to end. The magic we took from you, even that doesn’t change the truth.” He takes the fruit away, only a core now, and tosses it to the side. Maybe a tree will grow there, one day. Maybe it will just rot. 

“There is no end for any of us but that. Death. I’ll meet mine, when it comes, like a warrior. A man. A king.” 

He draws her close with fingers tight on her bare arm, his mouth bold, his tongue hot in her mouth as it chases the taste of the fruit. She twines a hand in his unbound hair and pulls; he gasps out a groan and slides his other arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She can feel him hard against the laces of his leggings.

“You’ll meet it tomorrow, King of Lies. And I care nothing for how you see yourself when death comes for you, only that the last thing you see when it does is _me_.” 

“That’s tomorrow, Lady Seiros.” His hands go to her hips, and he lifts her, turns and presses her back against the tree. “Tonight, I’ll be the thing you see when you _come_.” 

“You think much of your skills on the battlefield and I have never been all that impressed with those,” she says, hands on his shoulders, the bark of the tree scratching against her back as he shifts her, hands beneath her naked thighs, pressing her aching cunt against the hard mound of his cock. “What reason do I have to believe this would be any different?” She drags her nails down his back, smiling as she sees him shiver, the flash of his flame-bright eyes. “You’re a scavenger, my jackal, who thinks himself a king. And yet, I’ve fucked an emperor. Do you think you can compare to that?” 

“A king, a jackal, a demon, call me what you want, my lady.” His hands slide up and over her breasts, kneading, his touch a shade too hard, fingers rough as he finds her nipples and twists them. “What I am is a warrior, and can your emperor say that? I bet you lay beneath him and his soft hands and yearn to be fucked hard, rough. You’re no lady, but I bet he fucks you like one.” 

She hisses at him, a sound not human and yet it gets him riled, she can feel it as his hips push hard while he grinds his cock against her, staring down at her while he pinches her nipples and she bites back a moan. 

“And I bet,” he says, grabbing one of her hands and shoving it down between his legs, letting her feel the shape of his hard cock. “I bet you _hate_ it.” 

And, damn him, but he is _right_. Wilhelm, so gentle with her, kissing her soft like gentle rain and so careful when he takes her on silken sheets in the soft glow of the candles around his bed. The reverent, adoring look in his eyes when he slides inside of her, the way he kisses her, like he’s praying while he fucks her. He worships her with his mouth between her legs, and when she takes him with the exquisite glass toy made for such play, he falls apart and chants her name like a song into the wet silk of his pillow. 

Nemesis does not touch her like a sacred thing, or a goddess, or a saint. He lifts her and lifts her until she feels like he’s trying to place her like a fruit returned to a branch, but it’s only so he can drape her legs over his shoulders and get his mouth between her legs. 

“You’re as sweet as that fruit on my tongue,” he says. “If it were poisoned.” 

She gets her hands in his long hair and tightens her thighs around his face. “Make me come or I’ll suffocate the life out of you right here and sleep in, tomorrow.” 

“Ah, I said I would prefer a warrior’s death, but maybe I was wrong. My mouth buried in the cunt of my mortal enemy, eh, maybe _that’s_ the hero’s death I deserve.” 

She tightens her thighs around him mostly so that he’ll stop talking. He is not gentle, his hands on her are bruising-tight, and while she writhes on his hateful mouth she cannot deny how quickly he is bringing her to the edge. 

“Do you know,” she pants, thrilling at how easy it is to _hurt_ him, how hard she can pull his hair, how her strength feels like a threat and a weapon and how she revels in not being _careful_ for once. “Do you even understand why I want this? How it feels to take this, my pleasure, and then yours, and your -- your cock, your seed, and tomorrow, your blood, your _life_? I will have everything from you, just like you took -- everything -- from me --” 

She can feel him laugh against her cunt, can feel him using his mouth like a weapon, his tongue a blade. She writhes against him so hard the bark of the tree cuts at her back, the leaves fall around them, blood and death and life and pleasure, all of it, here, now, yes, _yes_ \-- 

She comes grinding herself against his mouth, crying out to the blood moon that is slowly changing from the heat-pulse of blood-red light to a cold, disinterested, chilly white. She thrills at how she can dig her heels into his back, smearing the blood from the cut on her foot on his back. Marking him for tomorrow, as hers. 

Her _prey_. 

She’s trembling when he shoves her thighs apart to free his head, and she thinks for a moment that the only reason she _didn’t_ suffocate him is that she’s still shaking, trembling from her orgasm. She’s barely aware that he’s stepping back from the tree when he moves her down setting her on her feet. 

“I want to face you tomorrow at the height of your strength, you monstrous thing,” he says, mouth wet from her. “The mark on your back will come not from the bark of a tree, but my blade of bone skewering you like _meat_.” 

Before she can say anything, he kisses her. She licks the taste of herself from his mouth, as eager and hungry as he’d chased the taste of the noa fruit in hers. 

“Should I fuck you on the ground, Lady Seiros?” he asks. “On your back, looking up at the sky? The same way you’ll end the day, tomorrow. Fitting, eh?” 

She slaps him, hard, across his hateful face. “If you want to take care of yourself, keep talking. Or find one of your soldiers who will find this --” she reaches down and roughly palms him, fingers sliding over a wet spot on the fabric from how eager he is to mount her -- “impressive enough to satisfy.” 

“Oh, they’ve had their taste. A king shares his wealth with his people, my lovely monster.” Nemesis grins at her; up close she can see the wild spark in his eyes, battle-lust barely banked like embers, waiting for a strong breeze to call back the flames.

“Tomorrow they’ll wail and tear their hair for you, maybe,” she says, working at his laces. “If I leave any of them alive to mourn you.” 

He goes to his knees in the grass and lays her back so that she can finish with the laces, free his cock. But when she’s released him, he pulls at her and says, “hands and knees, then, and I’ll take you like the beast you are.” 

“Spare me the sight of your hateful face,” she says, but she does go to the soft grass and dig her hands in, just so she has something she can tear.

She feels him as he settles behind her, takes her hips in his impossibly large hands, and draws her back. His cock is as hard as steel, and she’s so wet that it slides in easily, like an oiled sheath taking a sword. 

“Think of this, tomorrow, foul beast. When I take your life with my blade, slide it home. Take it as well as you take my cock, make those same gorgeous sounds for me.” 

She gasps out a curse, shudders as he pulls back and fucks her hard, feels the echo of it at the base of her spine. His strong thighs slam against her ass, and she pushes _herself_ back, takes him as deep as she can, tightens around him and smiles fiercely down at the grass when she hears his moan. 

“Even in this, King of Lies, I will defeat you.” She feels the earth rend under her fingers, the dirt beneath her nails, smells the scent of the flowers staining the air, hears the river as it rushes past, the cry of an owl in the distance. 

“As if you won’t come again on my cock, beast,” he says, and shifts behind her, changes his angle and oh, she can feel him now, so deep inside of her, fucking her while she snarls and hisses and tosses her hair, more like the creature she is than the one she pretends to be. 

“And you’ll come for me, and tomorrow you’ll die for me --” she shudders all over as his relentless thrusts drive her closer to the edge. The pleasure from the relentless drive of his cock is so much different than his mouth. She feels it like an echo of dark magic thrumming up her spine, curling her fingers ( _talons_ ) into the wet ground. Her mouth fills with saliva, teeth that are too sharp pressing against soft places easily torn. 

She throws her head back, a low inhuman sound escaping her before she bites it back – literally, tasting blood as her teeth catch and drag at her cheek. One of his hands drops down and slides in the slick wet heat between her legs, stroking her with those strong fingers as his cock makes her see all the stars drowned by the moonlight, covered now by the clouds that are gathering on the horizon, heralding the storm to come. 

Seiros comes beneath him, shaking apart on his cock and his fingers. She hears his pleased, low laugh before his own release takes him, and he fucks her so hard his knees slip and he pushes her forward with his considerable weight. Her long hair brushes against the grass and the smell of torn earth is sharp and warm.

Their breathing clashes, harsh and loud. 

After a moment, he pulls away and the heat of his body is replaced by the brush of cool air. Her thighs ache, but she ignores it and rises to her feet, drags her fingers through her tangled hair. She finds her robe and shrugs into it, feels the slide of cold silk against her heated, flushed skin, and turns to face him. 

He’s standing there in the spill of moonlight, holding one of the white flowers from the vine. He moves close, slowly, like maybe she’ll bolt. As if she’s some trembling deer, wide-eyed and afraid before the hunter and his bow, facing death at the end of a notched arrow. 

He reaches out and tucks the flower into her hair, behind her ear. “It would be a lie if I said I’d rather fuck you than fight you, but when I have you on your knees tomorrow, I could be persuaded to bring you home as a prize worthy of a king. Chain you to my throne, make you howl in front of my court.” 

She reaches out and draws her fingers over his jaw. “I would rather die a thousand deaths and spend eternity in flames than ask you for anything, King of Lies.” 

He turns his head and presses a kiss to her fingers. “I thought you’d say that. Ah, well. Lucky for you, Lady Seiros, I’d just as soon kill you.” 

She pulls her hand away, curls her fingers into her palm. “You’ll die tomorrow for what you’ve done. To my family.” 

He shrugs, easy as anything. “Beasts are meant to be slaughtered. It isn’t personal. You’re beautiful, and you made me come hard. But this night won’t matter in the morning. Just like I know a beast doesn’t give much thought to a hunter before it charges, what they might have shared before the bow’s drawn, the dagger unsheathed.” 

“Indeed,” she says, between her teeth. “Sleep well, King Nemesis, and may the dreams that take you tonight be pleasant enough. For tomorrow, I’ll send you so far into darkness even they won’t be able to find you.” 

“I shall, my lady. And tomorrow, I’ll stroke myself thinking not about how I slew you, but how you looked coming on my cock, howling at the moon like the beast you are.” He smiles. “ _Were._ ” 

She shakes her head. “And I’ll spare you no thought at all, which I think, for a man like you, is worse.” 

She turns away and heads for her camp, fingers reaching up and touching the soft petals of the flower he tucked behind her ear. When she returns to her tent, she removes it and places it in her palm, thinks about how easy it would bruise if she clenched her hand. 

Instead, she lifts it to her mouth, inhales the scent, which will -- for better or worse -- always remind her of him. 

***  
She strides across the field of battle, the air thick with dust, armies circled around them. He waits for her, eyes cold, raising the sword made of her mother’s spine like a taunt. 

Before she drives the knife into his heart, she sees his eyes flicker to the white flower tucked behind her ear. 

She thinks, perhaps, she sees him smile.

**Author's Note:**

> How many times can I write "enemies who fuck the night before the battle where one of them kills the other one", answer, a million times :| I refuse to apologize.


End file.
